


your lips, my lips, apocalypse

by Magnolia822



Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Deleted Scenes, Dubious Consent, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Historical References, Lusty angel is lusty, M/M, Mind Sex, Other, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, morons to lovers, that sort of becomes real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21722968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Written forthisTadfield Advertiser prompt.Aziraphale's feelings for Crowley, which he has done a poor job of repressing, take on a life of their own, leading to several Awkward Encounters throughout history, unintended orgasms in public places, and the revelation that Crowley likes Hamlet for all the wrong (right?) reasons.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476824
Comments: 56
Kudos: 688
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Hot Omens





	your lips, my lips, apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to SillyGoose for the beta! 
> 
> The title is borrowed from “Apocalypse” by Cigarettes After Sex. Give it a listen!

*Rome, 41 AD*

Petronius’s oysters are just as good as Aziraphale hoped: succulent and plump, with just the right tang of salty brine. Crowley, who was skeptical at first, seems to be enjoying himself as well, his mood lifted from their initial meeting at the tavern. Aziraphale hasn’t dared ask Crowley to explain the cause of his bad mood. He has a slight inkling of what it might be. Over the past few hundred years, Aziraphale has come to understand that though Crowley is a demon, he is not very much entertained by human misery, murder, and mass destruction. He is not very much like what Aziraphale imagined a demon to be at all.

Certainly he is nothing like the description from the Heavenly pamphlet “Know Thy Enemy,” that Aziraphale had received before being stationed on the wall in Eden. There is no sign of vermin, insects, or any other unsavory animal living on his person. He sometimes presents a foul temper, but only so often as anyone else dealing with the likes of Caligula on a daily basis for the last four years might do. His scowl is not very fierce, and in fact only serves to highlight how pretty his lips are, and Aziraphale would never describe his odour as sulphurous; it is more like the peaty malt of a fine whisky. 

“Another, dear boy?” Aziraphale asks, nudging the platter across the table. Crowley takes one of the shells between his thumb and forefinger and drinks it down with practiced ease, as though he has been eating oysters for millennia rather than trying them for the first time. 

It is, Aziraphale thinks, the most pleasant night they’ve ever spent together in all the years of their acquaintance. They are more than halfway through their second dozen—and third tankard of house brown—when Crowley finally sets down his goblet and gives him a curious look. 

“So, what do you think of Rome, on the whole?” 

“I think . . . I think they’ve done very good things with plumbing. And food.” Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, thinking about some of the less pleasant aspects. The slavery, in particular, does not sit well with him, and the Colosseum, though a beautiful structure, is more often than not awash with blood and gore. However, Heaven is maintaining a neutral policy in the hopes of making inroads with Christianity. Aziraphale isn’t supposed to voice his dissent out loud. “What about you?” 

“They sure do know how to fuck one another.” 

Aziraphale’s face grows hot. “Good Lord, Crowley.” 

“I’m not talking about sex, angel, though they’re pretty good at that as well. I mean screwing one another over, on the grandest scale I’ve seen so far. I’d call it impressive, if it was less brutal and more artful. In any case, I suppose I should be grateful. Makes my job a lot easier.” Crowley takes another oyster and slurps it down, the muscles of his throat working. And Aziraphale realises at that moment he must be very drunk, because he cannot stop thinking of that throat, and of something he had seen the other day in the baths. 

It should have been shocking. It was shocking, but he hadn’t been able to look away. It had been two men—one standing, the second kneeling between his thighs, taking his hard member into his mouth. The moaning had been obscene and the sound of the act itself startling. Even now, he can recall the thick, rigid erection glistening as the kneeling man swallowed around it again and again, clutching the thighs of his lover as though he were tasting something delicious. 

The men had thought themselves unwatched, and Aziraphale, who had only made an effort to blend in with the humans in the bath, stood frozen in the shadows until they’d each had a turn on their knees. He’d been unable to look away, his own member hard and aching in response. 

He wriggles a little in his seat as the memory. He can’t help wondering—has Crowley seen the humans do such things? Has he even partaken in such an indulgence himself? What would it be like to see Crowley being pleasured in such a way, his head thrown back in rapture? 

Crowley makes a strange sound, jolting Aziraphale back to the present moment. The demon has gone completely still, his breathing heavy and labored. 

“Are you quite all right? You haven’t eaten a bad one, have you?” Aziraphale had that experience once, and he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. Which Crowley certainly is, isn’t he? He is not someone that Aziraphale should be imagining in the throes of ecstasy. He certainly shouldn’t be imagining what it would feel like for Crowley to fill his mouth, what it would be like to feel the swell of him on his tongue. 

“Ah, no. Nothing like that.” Crowley’s voice is raspy. 

“You don’t look well. Perhaps some more wine would help?” Aziraphale leans forward to refill Crowley’s empty goblet. Crowley’s eyes, which are very difficult to see now behind his dark lenses, seem to track the movement. 

“Er. Ngh, maybe so.” Crowley lifts the cup to his lips, and Aziraphale admires the way his lips purse, the way his throat ripples as he swallows. 

His face grows hotter, and he is grateful for the darkness obscuring him. He wonders what sort of effort Crowley favors. He is so tall and graceful, he would look lovely with either part. But he can’t quite get the image out of his mind: Crowley, standing before him, hands in his hair, watching Aziraphale kneel—

Crowley inhales sharply, then sputters out a cough, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. “Nnngh,” he says. “I just, ah, remembered I have to be somewhere—temptation to accomplish, you know how it is, can’t be—ngk—late.” He stifles a groan as he lurches to his feet, body turned away from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale frowns, fighting the urge to reach out. “If you’re sure you’re not unwell . . .” 

“I’ll, ah, catch you later, okay?” Crowley throws a fistful of sesterces onto the table and, without another word, hurries out the door with far less grace than usual. 

Aziraphale watches him go, feeling strangely bereft. Perhaps he is beginning to enjoy the company of the demon a little too much.

*Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD*

The Black Knight is Crowley. Of course it is.

Three days since their initial meeting, Aziraphale is in the tavern pondering what the demon had said, regarding the two of them cancelling each other out. It is true that however hard he tries, he can’t inspire perfect harmony and accord among the humans. The utopian vision of Camelot is under threat. There is this latest business with Lancelot and Guinevere that has Arthur very out of sorts—understandably so, and there are rumours that Arthur’s long-lost son might be his half-nephew. Not exactly an ideal situation. 

Even the Knights of the Round Table, who have pledged their lives to the preservation of the Code of Chivalry, have their own petty squabbles and jealousies—and several of them are regularly engaging in unnatural fornication. Perhaps it’s their Roman heritage. In any case, it doesn’t appear to be Crowley’s influence at all. The humans are perfectly capable of mucking things up all on their own. 

Aziraphale realises he is brooding, but he orders another strong ale all the same. It’s bitter and warm, but it’s doing the job. 

“Aziraphale?” The familiar voice behind him makes Aziraphale automatically glance to the left. Crowley is here, this time free from his armour. His hair is longer than it had been in Rome, but not overly so. The most surprising thing: he is dressed simply but cleanly, in the clothes of a peasant. He gives Aziraphale a wry smile. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. I thought the Black Knight was busy, ah, fomenting.” 

“Shh,” Crowley glances around. “I’m going incognito. Needed a day off, to be honest. Thought I might get very, very drunk.” 

“What a coincidence.” Aziraphale raises his ale. “I thought the same. Can I buy you a drink?” 

Crowley nods and settles down across from him while the barman fixes them another round. 

“Not going so well, eh? The whole Round Table business?” 

“I’ll have you know it’s going . . . fine. Mostly.” 

“But that’s a big mostly. Heard about that Mordred chap. Might want to watch out for him, angel. Bad news. Badder than me.” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale takes a thoughtful sip of ale. “You know, I don’t think you’re wrong.” 

“Not a great idea to sleep with your sister.” 

“Was that one of yours?”

“No, angel. I’ve just been keeping the ploughs dull. Ever try to plough a field with a dull blade? This one was all them.” Crowley takes a long, deep drink of his ale. He isn’t wearing his glasses today, and for the first time in centuries, Aziraphale gets a good look at his eyes. They are a bile yellow, objectively, but to Aziraphale they seem almost pretty. Of course, he could never say such a thing to the demon. 

They drink until the tavern is full of bodies, the smell of unwashed humans and horses filling the air. Aziraphale doesn’t imagine he’ll ever get used to it. He is getting a bit tired of this muddy, damp, stinking place, if he’s being honest. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Aziraphale sets down his drink. Crowley’s expression becomes curious. “Cancelling each other out and all that.” 

“Oh?” Crowley raises one perfectly arched brow. His red hair glints in the candlelight, making him look quite fetching. 

Aziraphale’s heart starts to pound, his palms sweating nervously. He can’t quite believe the next words that come out of his mouth. “Suppose we were to . . . come to an arrangement. How could I be sure you were upholding your side of the bargain?” 

“I may be a good liar, but I’ve never lied to you, angel. I know my word might not mean that much to you, but I think a formal contract would be—damning.” 

“To say the least.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to go on. 

Aziraphale traces a dark line in the rough wooden table. “Your word means more than—I suppose . . . we could give it a go. A trial run, of sorts.” 

“All right,” Crowley says immediately. His mouth is turned up at the corners in a not-quite-smile. “Name your terms.” 

“I’ll . . . do some of yours if you do some of mine. But don’t ask me to kill anyone.” 

Crowley looks put out. “I’ve never killed anyone! Not directly, at least.” 

“Oh. Well. That’s all right, then.” 

“We’ll have to meet. More often than we have been,” Crowley says hesitantly, as though waiting for Aziraphale to object. 

A secret, shameful thrill runs up Aziraphale’s spine at the thought of seeing the demon more often than usual. “We’ll need a rendezvous point. Somewhere central, but not too obvious.” He gives a quick glance Above and Below to convey his meaning. 

“There’s a little lake I know, actually, in the town they’re calling London,” Crowley says with a nod. “Perfect place. Lots of ducks to feed; gives us a pretext. Anything else you don’t feel comfortable with?” 

“I think I can handle most other things. After all, you said you mainly leave the deciding up to the people? You only present them with options.”

“That’s right. Well, mostly. I do have some ideas about the roads around here, but that’s more of a long-term plan.” 

Aziraphale nods, though he has little idea what Crowley is talking about. “And what about you? Do you have any restrictions, blessings-wise?” 

“I’m not converting anyone.” Crowley crosses his arms.

“Fair enough.” 

“One more thing. Where do you stand on sex?” 

Aziraphale nearly chokes on his ale. “W-what?” 

Crowley’s eyes glint. “Temptations to sins of the flesh, angel. You feel comfortable with leading people astray? Giving them . . . options?” 

“I . . . suppose . . . that would be something I could do.” What he doesn’t say, is that since Rome he has become very aware of all of the things humans get up to—in fact, he finds it fascinating. Alluring. But he can’t admit that to the demon. He’s an angel, after all, and such feelings aren’t exactly angelic. In fact, he is sure there is no other angel who has even considered indulging in the sins of the flesh—Gabriel won’t even try mince pie. 

The knights bugger one another when there are no women available on campaign, and sometimes even seem to prefer one another to women altogether. While Aziraphale has not participated himself, he has, on occasion, been witness to these occurrences. And he has, he will of course never admit out loud, given in to self-pleasure to relieve himself of lustful thoughts. In fact, he had needed to do so that very morning after beholding a lurid act in the stables between Sir Percival and Sir Gawain, where Percival had mounted Gawain as though he were a charger in rut. 

He wonders if Crowley has ever done so, and if he has, whether he has played the role of the stallion or the mare. Oh, he would be the very picture underneath Aziraphale, taking him inside. 

Crowley gives him a panicked look. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says. “You look rather ill.” 

“I . . . ah . . . ungh.” Crowley shifts in his seat, seeming very uncomfortable.

“Perhaps we should sober up?” Aziraphale offers. 

“No,” Crowley says, face flushing. “I . . . think I . . . ahhh.” All of his breath leaves him with a whoosh; Aziraphale has never seen Crowley look so unsure of himself, so vulnerable. He almost seems to be . . . aroused. Of course, the very idea is improbable. They have, after all, only been discussing business. But then again, Crowley is a demon. Perhaps he enjoys his work more than he lets on. The way he is suddenly writhing on his stool is starting to draw the attention of other men, several of whom look interested. 

Aziraphale glares at them, injecting his expression with a little more angelic force than necessary, and they look away. 

Crowley’s eyes cross, and he lets out a quiet sigh. “Ngk.” He bows his head and rubs his fingers against his temples. 

“Ah—Crowley, are you quite all right?” There is a high flush on Crowley’s cheeks. His whole body seems tense, almost trembling. He looks very attractive, though Aziraphale feels guilty for the thought since Crowley appears to be ill. He most certainly should not be imagining bending Crowley over the table and having him thoroughly. 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he gasps. “Just . . . some indigestion.” 

“Indigestion?” Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. He is terribly aroused, and he is afraid he is going to have to give himself a proper seeing to later that evening. 

Crowley’s mouth opens, a little sound escaping, and then he shudders, slumping down onto one arm. If Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he would think the demon had just found his satisfaction. 

But when he looks back up, Crowley is himself again. He grins and shrugs. “Never been better, honest. So, about that rendezvous point . . .”

*The Globe, 1601*

The Globe Theatre is filled to bursting. Aziraphale and Crowley are seated together in the second gallery, out of the way of the crush of the groundlings. In the three months since they last met here and Crowley made his promise, Hamlet has become a rousing success. It’s the toast of London, and Aziraphale has seen it twice.

Being with Crowley is better. 

Aziraphale is feeling a little extravagant this afternoon. He purchases grapes and oranges for both of them, though Crowley only takes one or two nibbles, leaving the rest for him. He complains under his breath through most of the first act, but during the third he seems drawn in, watching intently during the play within a play. 

A few beats pass as the scene changes, and Crowley takes the opportunity to lean closer. His breath is hot against Aziraphale’s ear. “If you ask me, he should just go ahead and kill Claudius. Or expose him. Do something, for the love of Heaven,” he whispers. “That’s the problem with Hamlet. He doesn’t get _on_ with anything, does he?” He gives Aziraphale a subtle smirk. 

Aziraphale turns his head and opens his mouth; he’s about to launch into a rejoinder when he feels Crowley’s thigh brush against his own. Aziraphale freezes, his heart lurching in his chest. 

Crowley, however, has turned his attention back to the stage, wearing the impassive expression that often obscures his true thoughts. 

On the stage, the actors speak their lines, but Aziraphale’s whole world is narrowed to this simple, unintentional touch. 

The warm point of contact is all he can think about, and his breathing quickens. He should move his leg away, he knows, but for some reason he doesn’t dare examine too closely, he maintains the gentle pressure, closing his eyes to soak up the feeling. 

If he could do what he wanted, he would spend all day getting to know the feel of Crowley underneath his fingers. He would start at the demon’s feet and work his way up to calves, thighs, the slim bowl of his hips. He would pay special attention to the demon’s back, smoothing his hands along the ridge of his spine, and then lower again, to the perfectly round curve of his—

“Ngk,” Crowley says. 

Crowley has gone rigid beside him, and he doesn’t appear to be breathing. Aziraphale watches him attempt to maintain his composure, but from the flush on his face and the way he is gripping his hands into fists, it is clear that something is perturbing him. Perhaps . . . Aziraphale glances toward the stage. Richard Burbage is delivering a soliloquy with great aplomb, his lithe figure the very mold of form and fashion. He is much younger looking than Aziraphale, if that was the sort of thing one liked. Jealousy stabs through him; is Crowley perhaps interested in Burbage? 

He doesn’t want to think on it. Of course he has no claims on the demon, could never act on this illicit attraction, but all the same, he can’t imagine anyone else touching Crowley. If anyone gets that privilege, it should be Aziraphale. His hands, his lips, his tongue . . . 

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice sounds strange. “I . . . ngh. It’s really hot in here, isn’t it?” 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale nods. Crowley’s hips hitch minutely, and his thigh presses more firmly against Aziraphale’s. He imagines he can feel the demon’s sweat through the thick layers of their woolen breeches. He allows himself another moment of fantasy—undoing the stays of Crowley’s placket, slipping his hand inside to wrap around his hard—

“Ahh. Fu-fu-ck.” Crowley shudders, and Aziraphale is shocked into the memory of another moment like this, and another—when he had been having inappropriate thoughts and Crowley had reacted in a similar manner. A strange explanation begins to form in the back of his mind. Could his own desire be somehow affecting Crowley? He scours his memory of the latest pamphlet he received titled ‘Thwarting Demonic Wiles’ and tries to recall any mention of demons being able to sense angelic lust; there was none. Of course he is also moderately sure the writer, Vangelis, has never even met a demon. And of course there is also the fact that angels don’t lust. Well. That isn’t entirely true. Obviously. 

Crowley bites his bottom lip hard enough to bleed, almost like he is in pain. 

Aziraphale knows he has the power to manifest physical objects with only a thought. He has done it often enough. However, what seems to be happening here is slightly different. Crowley appears to be able to psychically—or perhaps even physically—feel what Aziraphale is imagining doing to him. 

Crowley’s hips wriggle, as though he is having trouble keeping still. As though there is a hand on his prick squeezing it from root to tip, again and again, speeding up as he reaches the point of no return—

Crowley makes a keening sound, loud enough to draw the attention of others, and Aziraphale snaps back to where they are, his own arousal flickering out like a snuffed candle. What is he _doing_? Now that he is conscious of what is likely happening, the thought that he might be taking advantage of the demon—his friend—in such a way fills him with guilt. Things being as they are, Aziraphale can hardly ask for his consent.

He’ll simply have to do a better job of keeping his thoughts and desires to himself. He won’t let himself stray again. 

Crowley turns to him with a dazed expression on his face as the rest of audience erupts in rapturous applause all around them. 

“That was . . . even better than I remembered,” Crowley says. Something in his tone makes Aziraphale flush. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Aziraphale says, desperately trying to regain some semblance of normalcy. 

Theatregoers stream out of the exits as the actors retreat from the stage. 

Crowley clears his throat. “Care for a spot of dinner?” 

Aziraphale smiles, the turn back to familiar ground making him nearly giddy with relief. “Yes, my dear. That would be lovely.”

*The Dowling’s Estate, 2014*

After the Globe, Aziraphale manages to gain control over his lust, for the most part. There are some moments when he can’t help an untoward thought or two from slipping into his mind, but he never lets himself indulge in fantasies whenever he and Crowley are together. He saves those for when he is alone. And, unfortunately, he is alone for long stretches of time, especially during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—though he does meet a group of fascinating individuals who openly celebrate their love for each other, regardless of their sex or gender. For the first time since he was assigned to Earth, Aziraphale feels actual kinship with a human community. He is not one of them, but they are the closest he has come to seeing the mirror of his own desire.

He experiments. While he has favored a masculine appearance for himself on Earth, he finds all parts of the human anatomy delightful. He learns to take pleasure in its many forms and give it in return, which goes a long way in enabling him to maintain control when Crowley finally comes back into his life. 

Everything is tickety-boo. There are moments, however, when it’s particularly difficult to keep his covetous thoughts to himself. For instance, when Crowley braves consecrated ground to rescue him from Nazi spies and saves his books of prophecy from certain destruction. And when Crowley offers to give him a ride—anywhere. Anywhere. That is one place that Aziraphale cannot go. However much he might love Crowley—and he does love him, that much is now clear—there is no way for them to be together. He must keep his thoughts to himself, no matter how desperately he yearns. The only way to do that is to maintain his distance, however much he can. 

So, it is with a combination of joy and despair that he finds himself ensconced with Crowley at the Dowling’s estate, raising the Antichrist. Nanny Ashtoreth is a vision. 

Aziraphale has not seen Crowley like this since Golgotha. He wears dresses with bodices cinched tightly, leaving no doubt as to the slim hourglass dip of his waist and hips. His breasts are small and firm, and Aziraphale spends many a night in the gardener’s cottage imagining what they would feel like in his hands. 

It is not surprising when his control slips. 

They are in the cottage after work hours enjoying a bottle of champagne. Several bottles, really. It is Warlock’s seventh birthday, and so far there are no signs that the child is either overly good or overly evil. He is, simply, an average boy with average interests and an average penchant for making mischief. It is heartening, to say the least, and so they are celebrating. 

Aziraphale has reverted to his normal appearance for the evening, knowing that Crowley is not particularly fond of the disguise he has chosen, but Crowley himself is still in Nanny’s form, curled up on the sofa with a glass in his fine, long-fingered hand. They are discussing their yearly reports, due the following day, ensuring they have their stories straight to present to their bosses who, for all intents and purposes, don’t really seem to care about the details. 

“Do you think it’s strange,” Aziraphale says, “they’re not taking more of an interest?” 

Crowley shrugs his slim shoulders. He has removed his hat and glasses, and his wavy hair glistens in the low light behind him. “Dunno. Probably because our reports are so good, they have no reason to suspect we’re trying to take the bite out of Satan’s spawn.” 

“You’re awfully confident about your reports, my dear.” 

“Because I’m amazing at bullshitting, angel. You should see the shit I came up with for this last. _The boy understands the language of snakes and can make things move with his mind. Blew up his aunt like a balloon when she pissed him off_. Brilliant.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “That’s the plot of the Harry Potter books, Crowley. Even I know that.” 

“Yes, but that’s what makes it so smart, angel. No one in Hell reads fiction! It’s all improperly written instruction manuals down there. Saves me some trouble.” 

“I didn’t think you read either.” 

“Yeah, well, Warlock’s been watching the films. Not half bad, if I’m being honest.” 

“Quite.” 

“Better than Hamlet.” 

“That is the most appalling opinion I think you’ve ever voiced, my dear.” Aziraphale smiles into his glass as Crowley lolls his head back against the sofa. He loves when Crowley is relaxed and happy like this—moments that have been, unfortunately, too few and far between. Crowley deserves better. It would be so lovely if neither of them had to worry about Above or Below finding out about their relationship. He would make it his duty to ensure Crowley had everything he could possibly want or need. 

“Well. Not everything about Hamlet was bad. I seem to remember having a good time at the theatre with you.” 

Aziraphale freezes. There is something in Crowley’s inflection that leaves no doubt as to what he is referring. Which means, not only does Crowley _know_ , he is . . . flirting? Aziraphale’s pulse hammers. He takes another sip of wine. “Do you?” 

“Yeah. Wasss nice.” 

Crowley closes his eyes and sighs. His red lips part, revealing a hint of that devilish tongue. Aziraphale, slightly drunk and too in love, imagines what it would be like to go to Crowley now and kiss him, to unzip his dress and touch his breasts, to seek lower with his hands and find him wet and wanting between his legs. He would kneel between those thighs and worship with his mouth. Oh, how Crowley would taste against his tongue. 

From across the room, Crowley lets out a little sound. Aziraphale’s attention snaps to him, his whole body going hot at the knowledge of what he is doing—what he suspects he is doing. He bites his lower lip as he swells in his trousers, and Crowley shifts on the couch, rubbing his thighs together like he can’t help himself. Neither of them say a word. 

Aziraphale imagines how Crowley would look, pink and swollen, his opening slick, a little nest of red curls to frame the whole beautiful picture. They would have all the time in the world. He would spend it getting Crowley ready, kissing him everywhere, before turning his attention to lick and suck and lavish that little bud until Crowley was shaking and throbbing against him. Even then, he wouldn’t stop. He would keep going until Crowley cried out, oversensitive and stimulated, his little hole clenching around Aziraphale’s tongue, the perfect place for his fingers. 

On the sofa, Crowley is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with effort. His eyes are still closed, head rolling on his shoulders. Aziraphale can almost feel it, can imagine the warm slide in, how Crowley would grip and pull on him, how he would take one finger, two; how Aziraphale would frig him and lick him until it wasn’t enough for either of them. 

Painfully hard now, Aziraphale presses the heel of his palm against himself to relieve the ache, but it only inflames him more. He should stop. He knows he should, but Crowley moans quietly and swivels his hips, and Aziraphale can do nothing but imagine sheathing himself in that tight, wet heat. He would fuck Crowley slowly, roll his hips to give Crowley exactly what he needs. Ah, he would give him such a filling that Crowley would come around him, begging for his seed— 

Crowley nearly arches off the couch, his face contorted with ecstasy, and that look is enough to send Aziraphale tumbling over the edge. He makes a mess of his trousers and feels the warmth spreading, his pulse hammering with fear at what they have done as he watches Crowley straighten his skirts.

Aziraphale vanishes his mess away before it is noticed, but it is too late. Crowley raises his head looks at him knowingly, his face still flushed with colour and sated desire. He looks very much like a snake in that moment. Aziraphale’s heart bursts with love. 

“More wine, my dear?” 

“Mmm. Yessss, that would be divine.”

*London, 2019*

It is late evening when Aziraphale and Crowley finally make it back to the bookshop from the Ritz, giddy on drink, good food, and each other’s company. They had taken a long walk after dinner to ensure that London really was in good working order, and aside from a few tabloids claiming unverified UFO and kraken sightings, all seems right as rain.

Aziraphale inhales the dusty, familiar smell of his shop and lets out a sigh of relief to see his books all intact, their worn leather spines reassuringly arranged just how he likes. He supposes he has Crowley to thank. Apparently, Adam had sorted them all alphabetically and by subject, which would have made individual authors appallingly easy for customers to find. 

It’s hard to believe that they have averted—mostly ineptly—a war that Heaven and Hell have been planning for millennia. For the last twelve years, Aziraphale has lived half believing that nothing they could do would stop the inevitable. The ineffable. Of course, they’ll never really know what the Almighty truly intended, or why, but Aziraphale can’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, they are meant to be here. Maybe he was meant to be with Crowley all along. 

“Still can’t get over it. Doesn’t even smell like smoke,” Crowley remarks, half under his breath, and Aziraphale watches him saunter around in a circle, thumbs tucked into his tight trouser pockets. He has a slightly haunted look on his face, as though he is expecting something to go wrong. Aziraphale supposes they will both feel that way for some time. 

“Yes. Adam did do a simply marvelous job restoring things.” Save the new collection of children’s adventure trade paperbacks, everything is back to normal. He supposes it’s a small accommodation to make for a new beginning. 

“He restored you.”

Aziraphale nods. “I suppose he did. Thank heaven for that. Madame Tracy is a delightful woman, but I didn’t fancy sharing a body for one moment longer. Much too crowded. And I’m quite fond of this one, to be honest, even if Gabriel is right and it is a bit soft.” As he speaks, he realises that Crowley is looking away, anywhere but at him, his face contorted with unspoken emotion. 

“Gabriel’s a twat. I’m ah—fuck. I’m glad you’re back.” 

“Oh, my dearest,” Aziraphale says, helplessly, taking a step toward him. He may have a tendency to prattle on, especially when nervous, but he has no words for the way he feels when Crowley takes off his glasses and tosses them onto the nearest surface. His eyes are burnished gold, searching his, and he doesn’t seem to know what to say either. “I would always come back for you,” Aziraphale finally settles on. “It was all I could think of, besides of course stopping the end of the world.” 

Crowley snorts. “Besides that.” 

There are still several feet separating them. Aziraphale is frozen, not sure what to do next. He knows what he wants to do. He wants to throw his arms around his beloved demon and kiss him senseless—oh, he would start with his lips and pay them proper attention, then move on to his throat, kissing and nibbling to his heart’s content—

“Ah—angel.” Crowley’s head tilts to the side as though he is doing the very thing, and Aziraphale realises what’s happening.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he says, his voice a mere whisper. “I’ve never been able to help myself where you’re concerned.”

“I’ve never wanted you to,” Crowley says, looking at him squarely. “But right now, I want you to touch me for real. Please.” 

Crowley doesn’t have to ask twice. He never has to ask again. 

Aziraphale goes to him. They are standing closer than they ever have before, so close that Aziraphale can see the tiny crease between Crowley’s eyes, the length of his lashes. Tentatively, he reaches out and slides his hand around the back of Crowley’s neck to draw him near. Crowley’s breath hitches. His skin is so very warm. 

“Angel.” 

They are kissing. Crowley fists Aziraphale’s lapels to get closer, pulling Aziraphale urgently against his body. It’s unbearably good, better than anything. Crowley tastes delicious, like everything Aziraphale has ever loved in his life, with just a faint hint of brimstone. Their tongues slide together, and Aziraphale feels the heat of it everywhere, his effort immediately hardening and pressing against the front of his trousers. He can’t do anything but hold on as Crowley walks him back towards his desk, his knees buckling as he connects with the flat, suddenly very clear surface and finds himself hoisted, held for an instant, and then deposited onto it with a hungry grunt into his mouth. He doesn’t spare a thought for the paperwork Crowley has disappeared. Crowley steps between Aziraphale’s spread thighs, and Aziraphale can feel the prod of his erection against his belly. He wriggles, feeling very much like an octopus as he wraps his arms and legs around Crowley, pulling him down. 

It is a good thing neither of them really needs to breathe, because Crowley doesn’t let him. His mouth is demanding and claiming, and Aziraphale is only too happy to give him what he needs. For a giddy moment, Aziraphale imagines Gabriel walking into the bookshop now and finding him spread out on his desk with a demon sucking a bruise into his neck. The bastard would probably discorporate on the spot before he got to smiting. 

“Fuck, Aziraphale,” Crowley growls against his skin, fingers fiddling with buttons. “You wear too many layers.” 

“I have, ah, standards.” Aziraphale gasps as he is thoroughly ravished. In all of the times he has imagined this, in all of the times his desire has manifested knowingly or unknowingly, he has been the aggressor, but he is helpless now in the wake of Crowley’s pent-up desire. His flesh tingles everywhere they touch, and he finds his waistcoat and shirt suddenly undone, pushed aside. Crowley gazes down at him with an expression that can only be described as besotted. His hand presses gently against Aziraphale’s chest, right above his heart.

“You’re gorgeous, angel. You’ve just about driven me out of my mind over the last two thousand years, you know.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Are you?” Crowley smirks at him. “ _You go to fast for me, Crowley_ ,” he says, in his best approximation of Aziraphale’s voice—which isn’t very flattering. “Who was the one going fast there?” 

Aziraphale frowns. “I suppose it was hypocritical of me. I didn’t intend—I never wanted to hurt you.” 

“But you did want me.” 

“Of course.” 

“I knew what was happening before you did, you know.” Crowley leans to press a kiss to his peaked nipple, and Aziraphale moans. “Never felt lust as potent as yours.” 

“Ah . . . how . . . did it feel?” If it was anything like the feeling of Crowley’s long tongue circling his nipple, Aziraphale is impressed Crowley never discorporated. 

“Like you. Like your hands, your mouth, your cock. But not—not completely satisfying. It just left me wanting you more.” 

“Did you ever use your wiles to . . . tempt me?” 

Crowley laughs incredulously. “Tempt _you_? Angel, I was trying my hardest to resist you, knowing the risk we faced. But I’m done trying to keep you away.” 

Aziraphale’s hips hitch, his clothed erection seeking friction, but Crowley is clearly enjoying himself, taking his time to explore Aziraphale’s body. His licks across Aziraphale’s vulnerable stomach to tease at his navel, and then he breathes hotly against the needy, wanting part of him. Aziraphale thrusts his hands into Crowley’s soft hair, unable to help himself. 

“Greedy, angel,” Crowley says, tisking, but the smile on his face betrays him. “Never met anyone less in need of a good tempting.”

“I . . . please. Please.” 

“Please what?” 

“F-fuck me, my darling. I have to have you.” 

“Sssomone’s sake.” Crowley gasps, and then he is surging to once again claim Aziraphale’s mouth, hand fumbling with the zipper of his trousers until he finally gives up and, with a blink, miracles the rest of their clothing away. Aziraphale feels completely decadent, sprawled out on his desk like a wanton. It’s fitting, he supposes, that Crowley should take him here, in this place where they have plotted and talked and imbibed and, he thinks (he hopes), fallen in love. 

Crowley is a vision—Aziraphale always knew he would be. The rangy lines of his body, the jutting curve of his cock, the sinewy muscle wrapped around his long-boned arms. He stands between Aziraphale’s spread legs, eyes pure snake. But Aziraphale is not the only one appreciating the view. He bites his lip, silently pleased, as Crowley runs his hands along his thighs, soft as they may be, with reverence. His hand wraps around Aziraphale’s shorter, wider cock and gives it a slow stroke, and Aziraphale nearly comes. 

“Look at you,” Crowley says. “Just gagging for it, aren’t you?” 

Aziraphale has always been tactile—with everything but Crowley. Now he has permission to touch. He reaches out to stroke that taut stomach, those lean hips. He will spend the rest of his time on Earth worshipping Crowley, he knows. Crowley shivers, like it is almost too much. 

There is a slight nudge at his entrance as Crowley probes with a finger. He hisses. “You made yourself ready for me?” Aziraphale shudders as another finger joins the first, the slick sound of it filling the room. Crowley is watching raptly as Aziraphale goes cross-eyed with pleasure. 

“Yes, Crowley, my dearest love.” 

Crowley freezes. His eyes meet Aziraphale’s, pupils blown. “Angel,” he says, brokenly, and there is so much tenderness in that gaze, so much devotion, that it erases any lingering doubt about the rightness of what they are doing.

“I’m yours,” Aziraphale says. 

The first thrust steals Aziraphale’s breath away. Crowley holds his legs steady and begins to move, his sinuous hips grinding in a slow rhythm. Aziraphale’s heart pounds in his chest. His blood is burning like fire through his veins, his human body’s nerves alight all around the place where they are joined. He feels how deep Crowley is inside of him, how perfectly he stretches to accommodate the filling he is getting, and he thinks again that the Almighty wouldn’t have given them these bodies, put them here together, if She didn’t want this. 

It hardly matters. Nothing will change his mind now. Aziraphale gasps and shakes as Crowley drives into him, the pace quickening. Their eyes are locked together. Crowley licks his lips and brings one of Aziraphale’s feet to his mouth, kissing the sole and his toes, sucking one into his mouth. It feels funny, but also wonderful, and Aziraphale almost laughs. He smiles instead, feeling happier than he has ever felt. 

His urgency is building, and perhaps Crowley can even feel it, because at just the right moment he reaches for Aziraphale’s cock. His hand is perfect, sliding in tempo with his thrusts. Whoever taught Crowley what to do taught him well, and Aziraphale can only be grateful to reap the spoils of his education. Aziraphale feels everything tighten and strain towards release, and then he is flying, the pleasure obliterating all thought from his mind, everything but the sight and smell and feel of Crowley. His Crowley.

As he comes back to himself, he realises Crowley is saying his name, whispering it tenderly, his face slack with pleasure as he collapses onto Aziraphale and gathers him in his arms. He can feel the warm slickness of Crowley’s release where they are still joined. Crowley nuzzles into the side of his neck. They breathe together, still trembling with aftershocks, and Aziraphale presses a kiss against Crowley’s damp forehead. 

“My dear, that was wonderful. I always knew it would be.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley replies, which spurs Aziraphale to kiss him again. 

“I think we will have to do it again as soon as possible.” 

Crowley nods, still kissing the sensitive skin under Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale thrills to the intimacy of it—he has never seen Crowley like this before, so pliant and content. If it weren’t for the hard wood underneath him, he could gladly stay wrapped in Crowley’s embrace for hours. 

“I think we should modify our arrangement.” 

“Oh?” Crowley look down at him with a curious expression. 

“From now on, when I do yours or you do mine, we mean each other and not anything else.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow, tracing a line from Aziraphale’s navel to his collarbone with one lazy finger. “Done. Easiest agreement I ever negotiated.” 

“I hope you do know that however strong my lust for you has been, my love is stronger,” Aziraphale says, because he thinks Crowley needs to hear it. 

“Me too,” Crowley mumbles, and Aziraphale’s heart squeezes in his chest. The quiet of the bookshop settles around them, familiar yet renewed. It is a fresh start for the world—for them all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are love <3
> 
> Come chat with me on Twitter @Magnolia822


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